


A Fulmination Of Thought

by tamethewoods



Series: The Art Of Owning A Bloodied Crown [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Lightning storm, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamethewoods/pseuds/tamethewoods
Summary: “This was more than mother nature’s unforgiving fist. It was more than just an abnormal weather front. It was a signal, a sign - a homecoming.”ORDean sits in a lightning storm, waiting for his brother’s arrival and contemplating.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: The Art Of Owning A Bloodied Crown [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929952
Kudos: 89





	A Fulmination Of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> You guys. Remember 8 months ago when I said that I was officially done with this storyline?
> 
> Damn it.
> 
> Couldn’t stop thinking about it, so here you go. I’ve honestly got another story idea bouncing around in my untamed brain, so there’s a possibility I’m picking this up again.
> 
> You don’t necessarily need to read the four-parter before this one, but it might help make sense.
> 
> Thanks for reading! You guys are the best. :)
> 
> Fulmination: “to explode with a loud noise; detonate.”

The lightning didn’t bother Dean. 

Thanks to Mrs. Burton’s seventh grade weather unit, Dean knew that he was in the middle of the mature stage of a lightning storm. Dry lightning cracked across the sky, violent and echoing. Without rain, the shards of light bounced around off surrounding dark clouds. She would have argued with him, said  _ that’s not possible, Mr. Winchester, to have a storm with nothing but lightning, it’s just not probable, _ but Mrs. Burton could shove it, because this storm wasn’t caused by anything natural. 

In any other case, in any other location, he would’ve ducked his head and sat on his ass to wait the storm out, anxious to get back to whatever case he was trying to solve or monster he was trying to decapitate. It was a rare sight to see, and rather beautiful, to have a lightning storm with the absence of rain and thunder - and, if nothing else, he was, a least, (not) grateful for this shitty experience so he could see what he’d been missing out on, as far as hellacious weather systems go. 

He was entranced at the flashes of light, accentuating the deep purples and bruising yellow of the night sky. The bursts of light bounced around between the dark clouds, scattered throughout the vast atmosphere. His eyes felt like ping pong balls, jumping around in his skull. It felt good to have his mind on autopilot, if only for a moment, mesmerized by the lightning and nothing else. 

The lightning seemed to reflect what he was experiencing inside - a quiet sort of monster, one who raged and thrashed underneath his layers of concealment. He felt the anxious ache all the way down to his bones, and the only thought quelling the beast was of Sam. It would have been almost lyrical, and sort of poetic, if he was into that sort of thing.

The bolts continued to flash around Dean’s seemingly 180° view, growing more severe by the minute. He basked in the flashes, welcoming them, sadistically cherishing the dangerous situation he laid out in but not balking - he knew the lightning wasn’t meant to harm him. 

This was more than mother nature’s unforgiving fist. It was more than just an abnormal weather front. It was a signal, a sign - a  _ homecoming. _

A bitter taste in his mouth arose at the thought of the situation - the situation that he couldn’t control, couldn’t even manage to wrap his head around, even after years of loving the man that controlled Hell with a stern fist - the man that bloodied his body and warped his mind to control a beast that was notorious for  _ not being able to control.  _

Because his brother’s return from Hell was long overdue.

Every day for the last 43 days, Dean willed the storm to come, anxiously watched for the beginnings of  _ something _ on the horizon, almost begged. And now that it was here, and he was in the middle of it, relishing the sporadic surges, it was almost celebratory. 

Once a year.  _ Once a year. _ That was the deal. Sam would go once a year, despite his ever-constant yearning, despite the Hell-Earth time difference, despite a thousand other things and even Dean’s stubborn, angry tears, because  _ it just wasn’t fair, for either of them. _

In between the flashes, he stared up at the sky and wanted it to swallow him whole, decided that would have been easiest. He wondered of all the stars he was witnessing, could barely see through spotty patches of nimbus clouds, which of them had burned out decades ago, all but light traveling to his dull eyes. It was beautiful, in a strange way, and Dean wanted to be swallowed up in the bizarreness of it all. 

He knew, more than anything, Sam needed Hell just was much as it needed him, and that scared Dean right to his core. Hell was Sam’s element, it was where he thrived, made him powerful and gave him strength he’d never be able to find elsewhere, and when Sam’s mortal time on Earth was up, he’d be transported downstairs on a velvet palanquin and placed on a granite throne with a golden, bloody crown on his head and that would be that. 

Dean hated to think about what would happen to  _ him, _ after he died, without his little brother by his side. That was an afterlife he didn’t want, if Sam wasn’t there. 

Every year, when Earth had become too much for Sam, right before his yearly jaunt to Hell, the lines in his face would become tight with discomfort, the planes of his shoulders and spinal cord like the coil of a spring, ready to break any second. But, after his return, he’d be more himself (disturbed beyond measure, yes, and his mind a little more spacey) but the grooves in his face would disappear, and his torso would relax. 

Dean could see the negatives that Hell wrought upon him, a 20-something year old man that didn’t deserve the weight, but could also see the positives - the lightness each visit brought him, the ability to use the concerting powers he was given to their fullest right in the place where they came from. 

The storm was a reaction to the violent change of energy in the air - after all, a prince, a BoyKing, was about to enter the atmosphere from the underworld. Mother Earth was preparing herself accordingly. The green field he was parked in ran for miles and miles, nothing but grass and serenity. The dark clouds above kept the sharpness of late July’s warm air trapped in the atmosphere. The warm metal of the Impala’s hood laid underneath the expanse of his back, reminding him of home - the only thing missing being his brother.

Dean wasn’t quite sure what went on down there, what  _ really _ happened when Sam got behind Hell’s wheel - he’d mentioned once that it was easier to rule from down there, in person, than on solid ground above. That made sense, obviously, but the skin on the back of Dean’s neck crawled still. 

Sam also mentioned, on an off night, when emotions were high and the lingering smell of sex even higher, that he loved too much the sound of unanimous chants in his name, loved the smell of blood that reverberated off Hell’s cavernous walls. Said that the lack of need for sleep and food made him drunk from power, free from the mortals chains that weighed him down. 

Then, after he’d calmed and gone to sleep, Dean threw up in the bathroom. 

Cas didn’t disagree with Sam’s position, but didn’t support it either. Nobody knew more than the trio that Sam didn’t get an option, didn’t have a choice - the role was his to fill or risk anarchy, both in Hell and on Earth. Besides, they’d be dealing with Hell‘s spawn either way, and Sam knew that from the get-go, so he ultimately took the descent. 

Besides, demons were always meant to be ruled.

Dean knew Cas spent a lot of time in Heaven defending Sam‘s name, and while he didn’t show his disdain outright, Dean was grateful, that even while not in their presence, he was still on their side. 

Each crack, boom, electrically charged pulse of light seemed to strike right to his core. His ears rang, teeth vibrated right through his jaw, could feel the raw energy in the air buzz through the metal of the car hood below him. 

It was like an arc of power surged through the sky, a momentous, sudden collapse of energy in the air, and then-

Sam stood before him, yards away and bloody, but smiling nonetheless, a white gleam through dirtied skin. He looked skinnier, face more sunken than Dean had seen him 43 days ago. 

He was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. 

He slid off Baby, feet hitting the grass, tiny sparks of residual power skittering up his legs. 

“Sam,” he mumbled, trying to keep the grin off his face, because  _ he was back. _

“Dean,” Sam parroted back, breathing heavily. They met in the middle. The sky seemed clearer now, the black clouds slowly dissipating, easing away into the atmosphere. The hug he pulled Sam into could’ve crushed bone. Sam grunted after a second, but didn’t release Dean from his own death grip, leaving bloody fingerprints on his stark white shirt. 

Dean pulled away, but barely, only enough to assess Sam’s body. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” Sam grimaced, but the smile on his lips remained, a little too tight. “I missed you.”

Against his will, Dean’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked angrily a few times, looking away from Sam’s gaze, pulling him back into the crook of his neck. 

“I missed you too, Sammy. So fucking much.” The tears cleared after a second, and he pulled back again. “We said two weeks max. What the hell happened?”

Sam snorted. “Literally,  _ Hell happened.” _

Dean shot him a look. 

“I got busy,” Sam simplified. “The whole time-difference really messes with me, and, before you rag on me,” he paused, holding up his wrist. “My watch got crushed.”

And indeed it had. The spindles were barely attached to the centerpiece, the glass long gone. It looked like it had been used as a shield,  _ Sam’s wrist blocking someone’s right hook- _

“That’s alright,” he tried to keep the strain out of his voice. “We’ll go buy you a new one.”

Sam sighed, upset to see Dean upset. “Dean, I’m sorry-“

“I’m not worried about the watch, Sam. I-“ he paused. “I’m worried that you’re down there, trying to govern creation’s most vicious sons of bitches, and I’m not even there to - to help.”

“Dean,” Sam smoothed Dean’s distressed cheek with a dirty thumb. “I am King, after all. It’s what I’m good at. That’s what I was meant to do.” He paused, changing his serious expression for a lighthearted one. “Besides, all it would take would be one look at your ugly mug to make them obey me.”

Dean scoffed, trying to shake the worry from his shoulders but unable to. The serious glint in his eyes remained, like a rock. Sam’s smile dimmed for a moment. 

“I love you, Dean, and nothing on Earth or in Hell could make me feel otherwise.”

Dean smiled, as in  _ same. _

“Let’s go home, Sammy.” 

xxx

**Author's Note:**

> “I better have you for a full 365 days, Sam! No less! I’m counting!”
> 
> “Okay, Dean.”


End file.
